At World's End
by Sora Resi
Summary: Fleeing for his life and into the dead stillness of the icy landscape, a strange man is saved from death's embrace through sheer luck. What is Arthur running from, and why does his saviour Alfred live the loneliest existence possible? Us/Uk, AU.
1. Chapter 1

**_AN: Hello everyone! This will be a short multi-chapter fic. I've deliberately kept the setting and several aspects ambiguous, and it is rather an experiment in writing in present tense. This will probably be about 6 chapters long, and as of typing this is about 95% complete. Reviews are always appreciated, chapters will be varying in length with the first being the shortest (I have to hook you somehow :P)._**

**_Many thanks to 'KassyMalone' for essentially beta-reading the fic and helping me on all fronts, especially with making sure I stayed in the right tense. Thanks to 'Jokerthematrix', too, for putting up with me rambling on about it. And without further ado -_**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

It's cold. Not the cold of frosty winter mornings or chilled autumn nights, but the all encompassing, penetrating freezing that tears through layers of clothes and flesh and sinew, and leaves the bones a shuddering and trembling mess.

Arthur forces himself onwards. The ground is packed tightly with layers of snow and more still falls, concealing the trail that his struggle has left behind. Sunken up to his knees, sensation anywhere below them is a distant memory at this point. His fingers are numb; his face raw. Shuddering, gasping breaths force their way through a dry throat, as heaving lungs desperately draw in, out as they begin to starve from a lack of oxygen.

_Keep moving onwards. Don't you dare stop_.

This place is absolutely desolate. Towering spires of snow-peaked mountains crush the insignificant human, fighting a losing battle for his life far below them. It is the loneliest place on this tortured sphere that he calls home, but the fear that drives him onwards tells him it isn't anywhere near lonely enough.

_Keep moving onwards. Don't let them __catch__ you._

The sun is in the sky. Or is it the moon? Everything is so still and dark and cold that he can't actually tell.

All is silent. He is at the end of the earth and it is dead; even those creatures that strive in the harshest of environs have forsaken this place. What cursed being could dare to dream of surviving here? No screeching cries of swooping falcons, no indistinct rustling of cowering mammals, no brush or trees or shelter. Just never ending snow, blanketing slate grey rocks that are only visible on higher ground.

_Don't stop, even though your breath crystallises into tiny ice gems with every exhale, even though those shining emeralds are dull from pain and exhaustion._

And so he keeps walking, his entire body numb to the core by now, moving mechanically and solely through muscle memory: he cannot feel a thing, cannot control his movements, cannot do anything other than push onwards until he collapses.

A cry of wind pulses through the white valley and pushes him to his knees.

_Keep moving onwards…_

But he can't, not any more. Starved and exhausted and so weak that he can barely hold his eyes open, his body starts to surrender to the cold and the pain and every other injury that has been inflicted upon his battered flesh.

As the cliché dictates, his world fades to black. But before he succumbs to death's cold and beloved embrace, sound violently tears through his world of silence. Faint, but still intrusive:

"Wait, don't fall asleep!"

* * *

_**AN: Like, dislike, comments? Thank you for reading!**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**AN: A million thanks to everyone who read and followed the first chapter (every alert made me incredbily happy!) and thanks especially to Love-Peace-Anime, InvaderPey, KassyMalone and aquamarinetiger98 for taking the time to review! I was smiling all over :)**_

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Alfred mentally dubs him 'the man in the snow'. He is young and slender and completely underdressed, especially in the deepest days of winter. So small is he in comparison to Alfred, relinquishing him from the snow and taking him back to the cabin he calls home is a relatively easy task. It helps that the man doesn't look like he's had a proper meal in weeks.

He's in a bad way when they finally reach Alfred's warm abode. Hypothermic and completely unresponsive, stripping his frail form reveals the beginnings of frostbite all over. He has no identification or possessions other than the clothes he is wearing, but Alfred didn't expect to find anything otherwise. He warms him up the best that he can, but he doesn't hold out much hope. Even a healthy person would struggle to recover from something like this.

And then there are the wounds.

The bruises could be overlooked; who knows how many times he stumbled and collapsed before finally giving in? But the cuts are not accidental, leaving deep and deliberately torn strips gouged into the creamy pale flesh of his back, arms and legs. A hole and faint burn marks lie testament to a gunshot, inflicted upon the side of his left thigh. The skin on his wrists is red, bruised, scratched and inflamed.

Alfred wonders what happened, but the unconscious man does not deign to answer him when he asks.

The first night is the worst. The man is still freezing, and rippling shivers are the only sign that he's still among the living. Even with the cabin's fire roaring nearby, he can't seem to warm up. Alfred isn't at all surprised by this, but he knows that it has to be resolved quickly if the man wants even the faintest chance of surviving. No matter how hard Alfred tries, he can't seem to make the man warm.

Finally he decides that the only choice left is to use his own body warmth and hope that it'll begin to raise the man's core body temperature. He slips into the bed, on the opposite side to the fire so that he has a source of warmth on both sides. The man is freezing to touch and Alfred suppresses his own shivers. It's awkward; Alfred hasn't been in close proximity to other people since he moved to this isolated little cabin, and he doesn't know what to do with his hands until the smaller man unconsciously turns in towards him, and Alfred finds himself wrapping his arms around him, resting his hands on the small of his back without even thinking about it.

He falls asleep entangled with the stranger.

_**~SR~**_

To the unknowing eye, this land would seem dead; and for most of the part, it was. But Alfred knows where to look to find small animals, where to fish to catch food and where to dig to uncover wiry brush and tinder. It is the edge of existence, but it is still possible to survive if you knew what you are looking for. Once a year he leaves the cabin for a couple of weeks and treks to the nearest settlement, where he stocks up on certain necessities. If the inhabitants of this little town ever wonder what the cheerful young American is doing in the middle of the snowy wilderness, they never ask.

Alfred's cabin is small and quaint, like most cabins found in these sort of places. Nestled into the side of one of the smaller mountains, it is sheltered from the harshest of the wind and snow whilst still being relatively exposed. It was originally a very basic fisherman's cabin, used for trips to the ice lakes further north. Alfred had improved it, though, insulating the walls outside with compounded clumps of soil and mud, and insulating the inside with dead grass and brush. It is only one, medium-sized room, but it has a bed in the one corner and a small hearth. There are some work surfaces, scattered with pieces of browned paper and a table and a set of fairly worn looking drawers. Rugs made of animal skins and woven fibre intersperse the cold wooden floor. A fishing spear is propped up by the door.

For the next day or so the man lies in his bed, unresponsive and completely still but for the occasional gasping breath. He's still cold, although its not as bad the first night.

On the third morning after finding the man, Alfred returns with wood for the fire to find him shuddering, brow furrowed (and my, are those eyebrows dark in comparison to the rest of his hair) and skin flushed. Whilst this would suggest that he's not too dead yet, it simply leaves Alfred even more worried. He's small and still weak from the hypothermia and it must have been days since he's last had something to eat or drink; a fever is very, very bad.

So Alfred stokes the fire until it is crackling happily, pausing to allow the warmth to creep back into his bones, and then takes his place at the side of the bed.

For days the man from the snow fluctuates between feverish and frozen, still unable to rouse fully into consciousness. Alfred sits as attentively as he can manage, considering that patience is not something that he has exercised for a long while.

On the sixth morning Alfred wakes and the man is deathly still. He is no longer feverish. His pulse is weak but, shockingly, holding a steady rhythm. Alfred can't help but grin for the rest of the day.

_**~SR~**_

Exactly a week after he was rescued from the snow, the man awakens.

Upon realising that he's alive and in a completely strange place, the man panics. He pushes the covers onto the floor and tries to stand, but he is in no fit state and promptly collapses. Alfred ignores the expression on his face - that of a cornered animal - and bends down to lift him up. It seems fear has left him frozen as he doesn't even attempt to escape his grasp. Once Alfred has him tucked back under the sheets, he settles himself back down into the chair that has been bedside for the last week.

"I wouldn't try to get up if I were you. You're still pretty ill."

The only reply he receives is a strangled cry, the man flinching as far away from him as possible. Alfred wonders what happened to make him so scared. He decides to give him a few minutes to compose himself, and is rewarded for his patience.

"Wh...where am I?" The voice is meek but distinctly British.

"In the middle'a bumfuck nowhere. Specifically, my house."

"Wh-"

"I found you half dead in the snow. Care to explain?"

But he's clearly still exhausted, and even as Alfred is asking this his eyes begin to droop and he is once again unconscious. Alfred is just glad that this time, it's a peaceful rest. He's already waited a week to find out who this stranger is; he can hold on a little bit longer.

* * *

_**AN: Many thanks for reading, and reviews/alerts are always adored.**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**AN: Not much to say with this one. Thanks a million to Love-Peace-Anime, KassyMalone, InvaderPey, aquamarinetiger98 and PerfectingSilence for the reviews! they make me incredibly happy and bashful :D**_

* * *

**Chapter 3**

The next time he wakes up he's both more coherent and more co-operative. With only a smidgen of hesitation, he introduces himself as 'Arthur', to which Alfred informs him of his own name with a big smile.

Despite being awake and talking, he's still not in a very good state. Bones are still broken, and his many wounds are still open and potential infection risks. Alfred informs him bluntly that he's not allowed to leave the bed for anything except to relieve himself, but Arthur is still too weak to argue so the conversation doesn't extend beyond that. Alfred keeps the cabin warm, maybe a little bit warmer than he'd normally have it, in the hopes that it would encourage his recovery. The rest of the time he's either out hunting for food - fish and small animals being a staple of his diet, along with roots and the occasional edible plant he uncovered - or writing in his journal.

They talk about unimportant things; Arthur and his dream job as an author, Alfred and his degree in archaeology. He loudly bemoans the lack of any decent ruins or remnants in the area, but still endeavours to maintain an academic approach to life. He has a journal, and documents every creature and plant he finds. Arthur is surprised to see detailed drawings interspersed between chunks of spidery writing.

He spends a lot of time sleeping. Alfred doesn't worry too much, because the more sleep he has the faster he'll recover. The bruises are starting to fade and the cuts are beginning to close. The gunshot wound is slightly more problematic, and Alfred unravels the makeshift bandage one morning two weeks after he acquired his guest to find it weeping and inflamed. With only limited equipment at hand, he ends up using the last of his medical disinfectant in an attempt to clear it.

_**~SR~**_

It's raining. Actually, 'rain' is a fairly nice way of describing the raging hell tearing through the landscape, ripping up flurries of snow akin to frozen tornados and hammering the reinforced sides of Alfred's hut like an enraged demon, released from the clutches of hellfire to pour its wrath upon this dead land.

Arthur is still bed bound, much to his clear chagrin. Alfred tries to help the situation by talking to him and giving him something to occupy himself with that isn't wallowing in misery and annoyance; Alfred finds that he is happy to talk when the subject is mundane, but every attempt to sway the conversation towards the circumstances of their meeting is dismissed, the discussion drawn back to a more comfortable topic. Alfred doesn't press the issue; after all, he expects the same courtesy.

Alfred doesn't have much in his cabin except the necessities needed to survive in this wasteland, but he has a couple of books and some of his old journals. Arthur is busy perusing these, flinching violently whenever a particularly violent blow shakes the sturdy little hut, whilst Alfred is updating his current journal.

He hopes the storm doesn't last too long, but knows that these things can extend anywhere up to three weeks. He picked up on the signs early enough and made sure to stock up on both wood and food, but he worries about Arthur; he's still too weak to go without warmth and sustenance. If it comes down to it, he'll happily give up his own food to keep the smaller man going. He hopes it won't last long enough for that to happen, though.

The fire is crackling away. Occasionally it flickers and sways, catching some of the worst of the wind that manages to sneak down the small chimney and encroach upon the warm haven he's created. The pair barely notice, wrapped up in their own little worlds, away from the freezing hell that mercilessly batters the land. Alfred knows that his little home can hold up against the worst of what this place can throw at it, and Arthur is soothed by this confidence.

For some reason, despite his somewhat caustic mannerisms and the clear shield he has drawn around himself, Alfred finds himself irresistibly drawn to the strange man. He reasons that it is because he is the first person he has spoken to, or even seen, in months, but a worrying niggling in the corner of his mind makes it hard for him to convince even himself that it is just this.

In the end he just shrugs it off. Alfred is a firm believer of 'what will be, will be', so he sees little point in stressing over a mere possibility. It is far more useful to focus on the present than potential futures.

_**~SR~**_

The first time he had asked Arthur what he was doing in the tundra wastelands of his home he hadn't been given an answer, the older man having simply shrugged the question off. The second time, still very much bed-bound, he had pretended to fall asleep. The third time he had simply ignored the American.

The air is still as they sit side by side, cupping warm mugs of cocoa that Alfred had acquired the last time he had ventured out to the 'local' settlement.

"I was being chased." If Alfred is surprised by this statement, he doesn't show it. Arthur knows he's been waiting with barely concealed impatience for it.

"Chased?"

"Hmm." Alfred realises that to get more would require prompting.

"By who?"

"By whom, Alfred."

"Whatever, 'whom' was chasing you, Artie?" Alfred wanders what his snow man could have done to warrant being pursued until the metaphorical ends of the earth.

"I'm the youngest and only surviving son of the Kirkland family. This means I'm also the only heir."

_Ah._

"'Only surviving'? What happened to the others?"

"Well I used to just think it was because of accidents... but I know better, now."

"Arthur?"

"They were murdered and it was covered up…" The smaller man paused, looking Alfred in the eye before turning away and staring blankly into his cocoa. "I don't know the details because I never asked, but if the immediate Kirkland line died out, other people would inherit the fortune."

"And these people knew this, and realised the only way that was going to happen was if you were all dead?"

"Yes. I mean, I was never on the best terms with my brothers, but I never wanted them _dead_."

There's such a pained look on his face, and tears creeping from the corners of his eyes, that Alfred doesn't hesitate to lean over and embrace him. It seems to help a little bit.

"And when you were the only one left, they tried to kill you too." It was a statement, not a question. Arthur sniffed, tears now pouring in earnest, leaving wet tracks down his pale face.

"I didn't want the money. I hated my parents and it was only by default that the money went to me. It was always supposed to go to my brothers - I was the odd one out. I had nothing to do with my family... I only found out that they were all dead when I was contacted by their lawyer. Next thing I know, these strange people are watching my house, following my car... so I ran. And I kept running, until there was nowhere else to go.

I was scared. I'm _still_ scared."

Alfred doesn't try to hide his shock. Ever since Arthur has been capable of getting around by himself he has been completely composed, with a haughty and icy demeanour. Sometimes Alfred could forget the circumstances in which he'd found him. Arthur shakes his head and gives him a watery smile.

"Never mind. What's past is past. Why are you here, Alfred? You don't strike me as being the sort of person to live alone." Alfred gives a forced laugh. He doesn't mention the fact that Arthur has still avoided telling him why he was in the state he was in, but he realises that it doesn't matter. There's a warm feeling bubbling in his chest, knowing that Arthur trusts him enough to tell him what he has.

"I'm not interested in a relationship, that's why. I can be awesome on my own."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it Alfred. People like you don't just live in the middle of nowhere. You're too… alive, I guess." Arthur seemed to struggle to find words: "People like you need to be around other people."

"I did something bad…"

"Oh do come on, it's not like you killed anyone."

..

"Alfred?"

_**~SR~**_

Arthur hasn't pressed him on his life since. At first Alfred worried that he'd jump to conclusions and leave him so he was alone again, but Arthur didn't treat him any differently at all. Alfred thinks that Arthur is a lot deeper than he has been giving him credit for. It hurts him that to know that Arthur could open up despite all the horrible things that had happened to him and yet he can't give anything in return... but Alfred is a coward, and he knows it.

Arthur will just have to wait until Alfred is as strong as he is.

* * *

_**AN: Schedules are for pansies, reviews are adored.**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**AN: Thanks to KassyMalone, aquamarinetiger98, InvaderPey, Froggiecool and the Guest for reviewing the last chapter! Every review makes me grin like a loon :D**_

* * *

**Chapter 4**

The air is frigid and the sky dark as Arthur follows Alfred through the desolate tundra of his home. His feet ache and his old injuries smart, causing pain to shoot up for various points of his body sporadically. He internally grumbles to himself, wishing he'd simply turned the other way and fallen back asleep that morning, when the excitable young man had shook him awake under the pretence of having something that he should really see. He knows that he isn't well enough for this sort of trek, even though he's had a couple of weeks to recover already. Apparently Alfred thought it was too important to wait, though.

Alfred chatters. When he had first woken up all those weeks ago the man had been fairly quiet, but it seems that Arthur's presence had broken some dam and he only seemed to shut up now when he was asleep or writing in his journal. Sometime Arthur complains for the sake of it, but to be honest he finds the constant stream of noise soothing. Alfred talks about any topic under the sun, and seems remarkably knowledgeable considering how childish he is prone to acting.

Alfred has gone off somewhere ahead, having gestured at Arthur to stay put. He's too cold and grumpy to bother questioning the younger man, and he instead stands where he was left. His left hip and leg are complaining, the gunshot wound still letting itself be known, even though it has almost scarred over at this point. Alfred doesn't think it'll ever completely go away, but Arthur thinks that it's a small price to pay, considering everything else that has happened.

He's deep in thought, resting most of his weight on his right side, when he hears a noise from somewhere in front of him. It's still dark, the sun having not blessed the sky with its presence yet, so Arthur can't see anything there. He assumes that Alfred is making his way back - after all, he's been here for over a month now, and Alfred is the only other living creature he has encountered.

He's still deep in thought when the sky seemingly collapses on him and he is thrown to the floor.

He must have blacked out temporarily, because next thing he knows, he's lying in the cold snow, stunned and disorientated. Its pitch black, and he realises that his eyes are closed, but when he tries to open them nothing has changed. His entire face feels warm and sticky. Panicking, and now aware of the growling and heavy pacing of... _something_ to his left, he attempts to force himself upright but stumbles.

He can hear the creature (because it certainly isn't Alfred, that's for sure) move closer, but none of his limbs co-operate and he's left lying where he fell, terrified and completely helpless to save himself. Bitterly, he bemoans having survived multiple attacks on his life only to be killed by some crazed wild animal.

The snow is seeping in through layers of clothing and chilling his skin. He can feel where he has been hurt, because the warmth of the blood is a sharp contrast to the cold. He shudders uncontrollably.

His body tenses unconsciously as it comes closer and closer. Unable to defend himself, he instead curls his body into itself in a pointless attempt to conserve his life. He knows it's useless, though.

It's about three feet from him when another, much louder, noise joins the fray. There's a twang in the air and a roar of pain, and Arthur realises that, not only has Alfred returned, but he's also managed to get the creature with the spear that he always carries around with him.

It's hard to figure out what is going on when he cannot see, but from what he can hear Alfred is trying to move the animal away from where Arthur is lying. He's not too sure, though. The pain and the cold is muddling his perception. Alfred is yelling and there is the sound of something heavy flailing around nearby.

All he can hear is Alfred and his own, panicky and laboured breathing.

Then the world is silent once again. His pulse is pounding a rapid staccato. He hears the snow crunch as Alfred rushes over to him.

"Are you okay?!"

"A-Alfred?" A firm hand grabs his forearm and pulls him upright. Unfortunately, he promptly collapses back to his knees.

He can feel but not see Alfred lifting him up, gently but still hastily. He can hear his heavy footfalls sinking into the compressed snow, and can feel the chilly air biting his exposed skin. Still in shock, he does nothing other than slump in the American's arms, and focuses on his breathing and trying not to panic any further. He can feel Alfred's breath on his face, his head nestled in the crook if his neck. He's shocked at how safe this makes him feel.

It had taken almost an hour to walk to where they had been, but the journey back seems to pass in a fraction of that time. The wooden door creaks as Alfred kicks it open, hands otherwise occupied, and a blast of warm air greets the freezing duo. Alfred settles Arthur down onto the bed, and he can hear him go across the room to where the first aid box is kept before returning.

He flinches as a cold, wet cloth is pressed against his forehead, but Alfred holds the back of his head and stills him. It's more uncomfortable than painful, but Alfred takes his time and this makes the throbbing ache increase. Arthur can feel him dabbing what he presumes is a cut of some kind. It must be bleeding a lot, because Alfred has to rinse the cloth off repeatedly. The dabbing moves down to his eyes, and Arthur breathes a sigh of relief as the dark, stickiness is wiped away and his vision, though somewhat blurred, is restored. Now that he can see Alfred, he realises just how tense and concerned the younger man is.

"Alfred?" The younger man gives a tired smile.

"You okay, Arthur?" He's scrutinizing him. Arthur nods his head and gives a small smile, but winces as a clamp seems to tighten around his skull and shudders make themselves at home. Alfred pats him gently. "S'okay, Art. I think you've got a bit of a concussion. And then there's the shock, too. Did it hurt you anywhere else?"

"What was 'it', Alfred? I thought this whole place was dead." Alfred chuckles.

"Of course it isn't dead, although sometimes I wish it was. Some of the creatures lurking about are pretty nasty." His gaze is still examining the Brit. It settles on more blood, this time coating his side, just above his hip bone. He forces Arthur to lie down fully and starts to remove his tops layers, revealing another cut. This one, like the one on his temple, is not too deep. Alfred declares that it needs stitches, though, and Arthur is too tired and too shocked to argue.

"What were you trying to show me, Alfred?"

"Huh?" He looks up from the cut, needle and thread in hand. Arthur pointedly avoids looking down. He's always had a fairly weak stomach.

"Earlier. What did you want to show me?"

"It was nothing important." Alfred looks down again, and goes back to concentrating on the stitches.

"You dragged me out of bed in the dark for nothing important?"

"I just..."

"You just what, Alfred?"

"The sunrises are beautiful here, y'know?" He looks up. "And then I realised that you'd never seen one before."

_**~SR~**_

Once again, Arthur finds himself confined to the bed so he can recover.

* * *

_**AN: As ever, thanks for reading and reviews are loved! :) Action scenes are hard...**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**AN: Wow, just.. wow for the feedback for the last chapter! I'm grinning ear to ear :D**_

_**Many thanks to KassyMalone, Froggiecool, InvaderPey, No Pain No Gain, aquamarinetiger98, mdkie and ThatCaveYouCallAChest for reviewing! You all get cyber hugs.**_

* * *

**Chapter 5**

The sky is still dark when Arthur rouses from untroubled sleep. The cabin is silent, but the fire still alive and well-stocked, so he knows that Alfred hasn't been gone for very long. Ever since the incident a few days before, Arthur's been confined to the cabin whenever Alfred leaves to hunt for fresh food. He can tell that Alfred is scared that he'll get attacked again; stranger as he is to these parts, he lacks the ability to sense any threats, so he is only deemed safe when inside the hut. With any other person, Arthur would have fought against this conclusion, but he knows Alfred is right. He feels safer in the cabin, anyway. It's a refuge from the world he has escaped and the terrifying wilderness beyond the threshold.

There's a strange electricity in the air that disturbs the older man. He can't put his finger on what exactly is wrong, but there's a distinct sense of something being... _off_ that is making his heart pound just a little bit faster. He's jittery and nervy. He puts it down to the fact that Alfred is not with him; he was only attacked a short while ago. It's not that odd that he is still anxious to be on his own: after all, the last time Alfred left him he ended up with a gashed forehead and a cut down his side, not to mention one hell of a concussion.

It's as cold as ever outside, but the weather is being fairly placid. The wind is weak and everything is quiet. Somehow, this makes his anxiety even worse. He's grown accustomed to Alfred's constant talking, and the silence is dreadfully disconcerting. All he can hear is the fire crackling and his own breathing. It feels claustrophobic, a feeling that he has not associated with the comfort of Alfred's home before today.

On a whim, he pulls himself out of the warm bed, feeling the desperate need to do _something_. He absently walks to across the room to stoke the fire, but it is going well without requiring his help, and he's left at a loose end. He plants himself on the floor to resist the urge to simply walk around in circles, but he can't hold himself still. Without even thinking, he walks over to the door and gently pulls it open, almost as though scared that Alfred will jump out from behind it and lecture him on disobeying his order to remain in the building.

But nothing happens, and he is still alone.

The cold hits him like an intangible glacier and he shudders. He is fairly well dressed, but he lacks quite the necessary number of layers to truly ward off the freezing air. He ponders going back and getting properly attired, but then reminds himself that he doesn't plan on doing anything other than looking out for Alfred's return. This requires nothing more that standing on the very threshold of the cabin and simply watching, as from up on the slope that it rests the view from the cabin is fairly is extensive.

For a short while he simply takes the opportunity to sight-see, not that there is much to look at. Snow is still sitting thickly on the ground, and he can see Alfred's footprints from a couple of hours earlier. Tenacious briars peek out from under the icy blanket in places, but for most of the part the land looks dead. Arthur knows better than to think that it actually is dead now, though. Everything is simply hidden, whether through evolutionary-granted camouflage or his own inability to discern them amongst the desolate landscape. Alfred tells him that there are plenty of things alive if you know where to look.

Something flickers in the corner of Arthur's eye. He angles his head curiously, still very much aware of the cold that surrounds him and unconsciously huddling to conserve body heat. His nose is red and the air fogs up as in breathes in and out.

Faintly, in the far distance, he can discern something... no, _multiple _something's, moving. He wonders if he's simply imagining it, or if it is some kind of wildlife that Alfred hasn't informed him of.

It takes a shocking amount of time for Arthur to realise that the silhouettes are actually figures, and human ones at that.

_They've found him._

He swears internally and the breath escapes him, as though he was physically winded. There is no one else foolish enough to be in this place other than those still determined to end his life. They're coming for him and he is alone. The only weapon in the building at any time is Alfred's spear, and he has taken that with him to go hunting. He hastily backtracks into the cabin and slams the door shut, leaning against it as though that would somehow stop an entire group of people being able to force past it. He's shaking like a leaf in a tornado and he struggles to think coherently.

He's alone and they've come to get him and _Alfred isn't here to save him_.

A desperate sob escapes. A quick peer through the door shows the figures getting slowly closer. They've clearly noticed the cabin: it _is _the only manmade thing for miles.

He realises that the worst thing he could possibly do is stay in the cabin, so he hurriedly forces some boots onto his feet and shrugs on a coat and leaves. He hopes that they don't see him go and there's still enough distance between them that this is a definite possibility, but when they realise that the cabin is empty they'll know he's left and will follow his footprints instead. They're far better equipped for walking and surviving in this terrain and these conditions. His only hope is to follow Alfred's footprints and pray that he's not too far away.

Logically, he knows that there is little that Alfred could do against multiple men, and thugs at that, but logic has vacated his terrified mind and the only thing he can think right now is that he'll be safe wherever Alfred is.

The wall of cold greets him once again and he rushes outside, still underdressed and extremities somewhat numb from his earlier wonder outside. He doesn't pause to look at the figures, getting closer and closer, and focuses instead on following Alfred's trail. The snow is thick and he sinks past his ankles, making it hard to walk, let alone run. He tries, though. He stumbles and flails but doesn't allow himself to pause when he cuts his knees or grazes his hands.

_Keep moving onwards. Don't you dare stop_.

They're close enough now that he can faintly hear their voices. Rough tenors, but the dead air swallows the words they speak and all he hears are the sounds. Terror forces him onwards, eyes wide and seeing only the sunken footprints that lie before him.

_Keep moving onwards. Don't let them __catch__ you._

He hopes and prays that Alfred is on his way back, food and spear in hand. He's too weak, too useless and too hurt to be able to defend himself from a single person, let alone a group that intends to kill him. Alfred is strong and smart and knows this dead world like the back of his own hand. He'll know what to do and maybe, just maybe, Arthur will live to see the next sunrise. It's a faint hope and deep down Arthur is sure that he'll fail and die horribly, but he has to grasp onto something. He can't just give up and die; not after everything else he has survived.

_Don't stop, even though your breath crystallises into tiny ice gems with every exhale, even though those shining emeralds are sharp from terror and desperation._

Minutes have passed and still there is no sign of Alfred. Behind him he can hear that the people have entered the cabin, and he can hear their angry shouts when they realise it is unoccupied. A loud crash is one of them kicking something in irritation. In a matter of minutes, maybe even seconds, they'll notice the two sets of prints heading away from the building, and then they'll have his trail. He keeps moving, five minutes, ten minutes… they are still in the cabin.

_Keep moving onwards..._

And he collapses, again. Not voluntarily; he is numb from the waist down and his legs are refusing to co-operate, refusing to keep moving and save him. A strangled cry escapes him, but even words seem to be beyond him, his throat scratchy from the frozen air forcing its way down, past raw tissue, suffocating his voice. He can hear the door slam shut in the distance, and a victorious cry as they pick up on the footprints. All hope is lost; Alfred isn't here, and they will find his frozen body and put a bullet through his head, ending the Kirkland line once and for all and getting their employers what they wanted.

He can hear them getting closer, heavy boots pounding through the snow, apparently paying no heed to the cold or the fact that they sink with every step.

And then they are behind him, no more than ten or so metres away.

He lies there, frozen in pain and terror and the constricting artic air.

And then a gunshot cracks through the still air.

* * *

_**AN: Ooh, another cliffie... I'm a cruel author :D**_

_**2 chapters left! Reviews, as always, are loved.**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**AN: Nowt much to say this time, except that we're creeping close to the end. Many thanks to InvaderPey, KassyMalone, ThatCaveYouCallAChest, Love-Peace-Anime, bottledinspiration and Froggiecool for reviewing! I love everyone who favourites or alerts, too! Although reviews always make me smile especially :3**_

_**Stop trying to Americanise me, Spellcheck...**_

* * *

**Chapter 6**

He wonders where the blinding pain is and why he is still breathing. His mind is numb, and it takes a few seconds to realise that the gunshot came from the opposite direction of the people pursuing him. It takes effort, but he forces his head off the icy ground and makes himself look upwards. He flinches as another shot rings out, echoing through the frigid valley, but once again the expected pain doesn't appear.

Alfred is standing a few feet in front of him. Arthur gapes when he sees the shotgun, aimed unwaveringly at the people behind him. His spear is untouched, on the ground next to some fresh kill and his bag. In between the panic and muddled thoughts, he barely has time to wonder where this weapon has appeared from. He had only ever known Alfred to have his spear.

His expression is terrifying.

"Back off!"

Another gunshot screeches through the dead air. Arthur gasps, and once again flinches instinctively as one of the men pursuing him cries out with pain and collapses with a muffled thud. The advancing steps falter momentarily, but evidently they believe they can overcome their adversary as they quickly press on. He wants to look behind but he's terrified of what he'll see, so he stays there on the frozen ground, feeling colder and colder as the feeble fingers of dawn glide over his skin.

The look on Alfred's face both enraptures and scares him.

More shots, and his heart drops like a stone when he sees smidgens of blood blooming through Alfred's heavy coat, realisation hitting him like a freight train.

_They'd shot Alfred._

However, whether because of adrenaline or because the injuries are simply superficial, he holds steady, his anger evident from his stance and the incredibly enraged look plastered over his face. Arthur finds it odd to see the carefree young man that he's got to know over the past few weeks in such a state. And all because of him.

He can hear the rustling of thick clothes and panting breaths from both parties. Of the five men that had been in pursuit, two now lie dead on the ground. Another one is quickly dispatched upon attempting to step forward, a gunshot blooming like some morbid blossom in the dead centre of his forehead. Hope begins to rise, tentative, like the weak rays of the cold morning sun.

The remaining two men seem to ponder upon their next actions. As if through telepathy, they act as one; moving forward almost as a single individual, and Alfred's attention is divided. The one man is dispatched with little ceremony, but having to focus on him momentarily distracts Alfred from the other thug, who launches himself forward towards Arthur, still lying prone on the ground.

Before he can even try to react, the man drags him forcibly to his feet and Arthur can feel the cold metal of a gun's muzzle pressed against his temple. The whole world freezes. All he can hear is his own heartbeat as it pounds painfully in his chest. Shuddering breaths from his prior flight force their way past chapped lips.

The world holds still.

Arthur trembles uncontrollably, unable to think past the cold metal that is held against the equally cold skin just under his hairline. The man's grip is painfully hard, and an uncontrollable flinch results in it tightening exponentially; there is a muffled crack, and pain shoots up from the shattered bones in his wrist. He gasps in pain and shock, but doesn't let out any other noises and forces himself to remain still, fearing further pain.

He sees Alfred raise his weapon higher, but he too seems to realise that they're at a stalemate, and he can do nothing to stop the thug.

The world is coloured red with terror and blood.

As the dawn creeps onwards, illuminating their plight with tired rays of light, Arthur realises that someone will have to do something to break this impasse.

He decides that it is about time that he stops being merely a damsel, simply waiting for others to rescue him.

He throws his head backwards violently, the back of his skull greeting the man's face shortly, sharply and very painfully. He can hear a splintering as bone - likely the man's nose - is crushed from the impact. The blow was hard, and it leaves him confused and dazed as he is thrown forcefully back towards the ground, landing with a dull thud and another crack of breaking bones. He can hear the man swear loudly, though it is muffled through blood and pain.

There's the sound of a violent struggle as Alfred lurches forward, grabbing their foe in his confusion, only just avoiding Arthur as he lies lifelessly in the cold snow. Faintly, over the sound of his heart pounding and blood rushing in his ears, he can hear Alfred speak. His voice is almost emotionless, tinted with only the barest hint of anger:

"Listen to me," The thug gargles, rendered speechless by a large hand clenched tightly around his throat. "You go back to your boss, whoever the hell that is, and you tell them this: you tell them that Arthur is dead. You saw his corpse. You did your job and now those assholes can have their money. Understood?"

The man is trembling underneath Alfred's gaze- Arthur can hear his teeth clattering together, and not from the cold. He forces himself to look upwards, blearily. The man's eyes are fixed on the gun. Alfred's aim is steady and unwavering, his mouth a firm line. It terrifies Arthur to know that Alfred would shoot this man without a moment's hesitation, just to keep him safe.

"Alright! Alright… Pl- please don't kill me." Alfred stares at him, before relinquishing his grip, gun still aimed at the pathetically shaking form. Without even stopping to look at his fallen comrades, or even re-acquired his dropped pistol, the man stumbles off in the same direction in which Arthur initially had fled from.

And the whole world breathes out.

Alfred lets the gun drop to his side, before turning heel and facing Arthur. Losing grip on the gun seems to have released him from the fury of before. His state makes Arthur's heart break, though.

There is blood pouring from an undetermined wound somewhere under his hair, and the left lense of his glasses is cracked. The steely-eyed and terrifying expression from merely moments before has vanished, replaced by a dopey but somewhat worried grin. The concern is still fairly evident in his eyes. Arthur pointedly avoids looking at the bodies as he tries to drag himself up from his position in the snow, but doesn't even flinch when he feels Alfred's hands on his shoulder to help drag him to his feet.

"You're hurt..." Nothing else registers, other than the blood _(Alfred's blood, it shouldn't be tarnishing his flawless skin)_ plastered over the man in front of him. "Alfre-"

"Stop it, Arthur." He uses his full name, serious. He manhandles him until the smaller man is upright, but Arthur simply slumps into him, unable to hold his own weight of weary and frozen legs.

"I'm sorry... I'm _so _sorry-"

"Arthur, I mean it. This wasn't your fault and you have to stop apologising."

"But you're hurt. Because of me." He can feel tears forcing their way out of tired eyes, the previous events registering in their entirety. They'd both nearly died. _Alfred_ could have died.

"Not as bad as you are." He flashes a weak smile that makes Arthur's heart flutter. "I'm starting to think the safest thing to do would be to tie you to the bed and leave you there."

Arthur doesn't respond other than to lean slightly further into Alfred's warm and comforting mass, trembling violently. His injuries are beginning to make themselves known; sharp pains and throbbing aches running like a cruel symphony through his frazzled nerves. Without even thinking, he finds himself nuzzling his cold face into Alfred's neck. The younger man chuckles, a deep sound that reverberates comfortingly through his throat.

"C'mon, we should get back to the cabin before we both become human popsicles. I'll come back for all my stuff later." He drags Arthur into something vaguely resembling a bridal hold and begins walking, neatly sidestepping the thugs' corpses. Arthur feels him raise his hand as if to shield him from the view, but he feels no inclination to look anyway and simply burrows his face further, inhaling Alfred's scent and warmth and everything else so quintessentially _him_. He feels safe in his arms, the younger mans' presence as calming as any drug, with an accompanied fuzziness in his heart.

Despite his best intentions, once the adrenaline has dissipated he is left empty and drained and, warm in Alfred's embrace, he succumbs to the welcoming blanket of sleep.

* * *

**_An: Ah, I'm so cruel to poor Arthur..._**

**_Only one chapter left! I'll be quite sad to end this._**


	7. Chapter 7

_**AN: The last chapter! Much sadness, for I hate endings :(**_

_**Many thanks to all the guys and girls that reviewed the last chapter - Yuukilover, ThatCaveYouCallAChest, Froggiecool, KassyMalone, InvaderPey, PerfectingSilence, aquamarinetiger98 and alchemisthetaliapirates. Special thanks to the few that were with me all the way through and reviewed every chapter! It was very nice to know that you were enjoying it through out :)**_

_**I can't put it off any longer...**_

* * *

**Chapter 7**

He awakes, mildly befuddled, to find himself back in his usual place: the bed that once was Alfred's, although in recent weeks it has been used substantially more for Arthur's purposes.

Glancing around through heavy-lidded eyes, he can see that Alfred has made a half-hearted attempt at clearing up the mess the men made when they'd broken into the house, but despite having swept up the snow and mud and in his efforts to re-organise the room, there is no way to easily fix the shattered chair, or the multitude of crumpled up papers that have been placed in a haphazard pile on the worktop.

He bolts upright as unpleasant recollection pours forth into his tired mind.

And then he breathes a sigh of relief. Alfred is asleep; propped up in the comfy chair situated to the one side of the bed. His breathing is steady, and it is quickly apparent that he has managed to tend to his own wounds; probably at the same time that he was patching up Arthur. Although he is a little paler than normal, he seems fine to Arthur's eyes.

For a couple of minutes he simply sits there, watching his sleeping saviour with gentle eyes. He feels blessed, and simply cannot fathom how lucky he was to meet such a kind soul, especially when recent experiences had almost convinced him that compassion from another human was beyond anything he'd ever experience.

After a little while the aches begin to make themselves known, exacerbated no doubt by the fact that he's sitting up, and he is struck with the realisation that Alfred cannot be much more comfortable in the chair.

He drags himself out of the bed, mumbling soundless curses, and nudges the sleeping man gently. It takes a couple of goes, but finally he stirs. Without speaking, he gestures for him to get in the bed.

"Mm, no Artie… s'your bed. Cause you're hurt. Remember?" He sounds foggy with sleep, and starts to curl back up into the chair, dozing. Arthur simply prods him again. Harder, this time. When he speaks, his voice is quiet but clear.

"So are you, numbskull. And it's not _that _small. We can share."

A grin lights up the younger man's face, and he all but leaps up from the chair. Arthur notices that he winces as he does so, and promptly chastises him.

"Idiot! You're hurt too. _Remember?_" Alfred pouts at him, but moves noticeably slower now, in an obvious attempt to avoid irritating his wounds any further. Arthur pauses, before coughing slightly.

"Are you alright, Alfred? You were… bleeding quite a lot…" He watches Alfred as he settles on the far side of the bed, concerned.

"I'm fine." He sees that Arthur doesn't look convinced. "_Honest_. One of the shots just grazed me, that's all. Didn't even go in more than an inch or so. It just looked bad because it bled a lot. You were in a lot worse state when we got back here; you'd nearly lost your toes to frostbite. Again." At this he gives an exaggerated eye roll and Arthur feels the frown slip fractionally. "Not to mention that you were all cut up. Stop falling in the snow. You should know by now that stuff ain't very soft."

"Shut up and go back to sleep, idiot." Arthur grouses, before falling back into the bed himself. He can hear Alfred chuckle and hides the small smile that unwittingly creeps onto his face. Within seconds, he can hear steady breathing as Alfred falls back into his deep sleep. Nuzzling into the blankets, he tries to make himself comfortable, highly aware of the warm mass pressed up against his back.

Back when they had first met he had pondered upon Alfred's reasons for letting him use his only bed when it left him with the not-particularly-comfortable chair to sleep on, but it seemed to Arthur that he was simply so altruistic that the idea of _not_ giving it to someone who was hurt hadn't even crossed his mind. This had only made the blossoming fondness Arthur felt even more noticeable. Now, the burning affection is warming him as much as Alfred's physical presence, if not more so.

He's tired, his head is throbbing and there is a chorus of aches reverberating through his entire body, but somehow his heart feels lighter than it has in months.

It takes remarkably little time for him to drop back into a deep a restful sleep.

_**~SR~**_

"Why didn't you kill him?"

Alfred glances up at Arthur, briefly looking away from the tattered book that he's vainly trying to glue together. Arthur struggles to meet his eyes, fiddling and pulling at a loose thread in his sleeve. Just thinking about the confrontation a few days prior makes him nervous and shaky, but he has to know. Alfred had killed the other men and was certainly in the position to do the same to the lone survivor of their group. He hears a sharp exhale; a breathless chuckle.

"Because I didn't want to, and I didn't have to. Anyway, it's better this way - if they all vanished their employers would keep searching. If he goes back alive, he can lie and they'll never know any better."

"I guess. I didn't really think about that."

"You're excused. You're hurt." The younger man sticks an immature tongue out at Arthur, before laughing quietly and setting back to his work.

Arthur's perplexed frown is gently replaced by a small smile, and he chuckles lightly.

"You're an odd one, Alfred Jones."

"So you keep saying." There's a brief pause, before the words seem to burst forth from Alfred's mouth.

"I'm sorry. I was selfish."

"What do you mean?" You saved me… for the _third_ time. You have nothing to apologise for."

"You can't ever go back to your old life now." Arthur's smile remained.

"Who ever said I wanted to?"

_**~SR~**_

Although they still are both hurt - and Alfred insists that Arthur's injuries are far more severe than his - Arthur revels in beings able to tend to the younger man. There is precious little left in the cabin to use to tend to wounds, so Alfred resorts to hunting for more natural remedies, grumbling all the while about the lack of availability at 'this time of the year' but still miraculously finding various plants that he turns into salves to prevent infection. It amuses Arthur endlessly to hear the younger man griping under his breath, and it is a pleasant distraction from the pain once again permeating his being.

Before long they find themselves in the midst of a yet another winter storm, trapped in the cabin by the biting winds and tumultuous snow squalls. The pallid midnight sun, that even on goods days only just blesses them with its presence, has vanished completely. And so, for a long couple of weeks, winter reigns absolute.

Whilst Arthur has absolutely no problem remaining in the cabin with Alfred - and the younger man seems perfectly happy himself - the fact remains that there is little to do to occupy oneself, especially now that Alfred was obsessing about fixing the mess they had made of his once carefully organised journals.

Bored, and determined to draw Alfred's attention away from the dire weather at least temporarily, Arthur finds his mouth broaching the forbidden topic without even consulting his mind.

"A couple of weeks ago, when I told you about my… circumstances, you implied that you'd killed a man… Alfred?"

He sees Alfred freeze, and instantly regrets his words. However, before he can open his mouth to say 'forget it', the younger man is responding.

"I may as well have done. He's still dead, it doesn't matter that I wasn't the one to pull the trigger."

He gives a deep and sorrowful sigh, and Arthur doesn't even attempt to resist the urge to embrace him. Moving towards him and wrapping his arms around his neck, he holds him as he would a child, and without meeting any resistance.

"He was my brother, and I was supposed to protect him." He pauses, before looking up at Arthur with a sad smile. "I like to think that at least I managed to protect you."

Arthur returns a soft and reassuring smile.

"You've done a fine job. It's certainly not something that I've made easy for you." He gives a watery chuckle.

Alfred takes a deep breath, as though steeling himself. Arthur tilts his head, bemused at this action. After a few moments, he manages to speak:

"I think I like you... a lot."

A knowing smile.

"I know."

"You know?"

"You're not very subtle about it, love."

~SR~

That night, when Arthur is once again settled into the small bed, Alfred takes his place next to him as they tend lovingly to each others' wounds. Arthur's past can no longer catch up with him, and he has the patience to wait Alfred's to reveal itself. He owes the younger man that much, and it's the least that Arthur can do for this wonderful young man that rescued him from death's cold embrace and brought him forth into warmth and companionship.

And so there, in the cold a dead land that Arthur could have never foreseen he'd call 'home', they stay.

Together.

* * *

_**AN: I hate writing endings as much, if not more, than I hate reading them... but alas, all good things come to an end! Thanks to all my lovely reviewers, followers and also those who favourite this story. Every single email made me grin like a loon :) It's been a fun ride. Special thanks to KassyMalone, for giving me constant advice and much-needed nit-picking throughout!**_

_**Now I've just got to finish some other lingering fics (naughty me for forgetting to update them for so long...) and then maybe some fun new ones! I'm thinking of a Western with our boys.**_


End file.
